Saltwater Veins
by Cyanide-Princess-666
Summary: In their veins there is only blood. In mine, there is the ocean.
1. Chapter 1

_**Saltwater Veins: Chapter One…**_

_**There aren't going to be many of these little input paragraphs this time, but while I'm doing this one I'd like to thank everyone for the massive response I got to my Skulduggery Pleasant duo. I've never had such brilliant feedback :) I'd also like to recommend The Scorpio Races to everyone, the book was breathtaking. Anyway, here's the first chapter, let's push on.**_

oO0Oo

The sea is angry today. It batters the sides of the little boat bound for the island of Thisby. Thisby is a tiny place, populated by only 4000 people most of the year, but in October, hundreds and hundreds of tourists from the mainland flood into Scarmouth to watch the Scorpio Races. They buy and sell horses, place bets on the races, and scurry around the colourful booths lining the edge of the beach. Those booths sell everything from hand painted porcelain teacups to November bells. The most popular place for tourists other than the Black-Eyed Girl and the track itself is Palsson's bakery, where tourists clamour to buy November cake.

I remember my first November cake, the taste of sweet nectar, the sticky syrup dripping down my chin. No cake has ever matched up to them, not one. Palsson's bakery is even famous on the mainland for its wonderful pastries.

George Holly once told me that there was nothing sweeter than the memory of biting into a freshly baked November cake. He said that memories can make food seem so much sweeter. My mouth waters at the thought, and my stomach growls in reply. I haven't eaten today. George would've made sure I was fed before I left if he'd been awake, but he wasn't. He isn't due to join me on Thisby for a few days. I replay one of our last conversations in my head.

oO0Oo

"Mr Holly, I'd like to go to the island this year, to watch the races," I'd said.

"I need you here with my horses, Miss Farrow," he replies, not unkindly. My surname isn't Farrow, but he doesn't need to know that. Farrow is what I've called myself since I left the island.

"But Sir, I've wanted to go watch the races my whole life, I thought perhaps this year I might go with you?"

"You're my best stable hand, Isabella. I need you here, without you around things never run smoothly." Mr Holly is not a bad man; in fact he's very kind. I work for him, tending to his horses. I have done since the day he decided to move from California to the mainland. He brought all his horses with him.

"But Mr Holly, my life is on that island."

"Your life has been the mainland since you were seven years old, Isabella. You told me that yourself."

"I was _born_ on Thisby. I came to the mainland to try and make money, so I could survive after my family were killed. That's what I've done. I have enough now to return and watch the races. I won't stay there, I will return to the stables Mr Holly. Please." His brow furrows and he studies me.

"Thisby brought you nothing but bad luck," he says.

"Thisby brought me the sea. It brought me the _Cappail uisce. _Thisby brought me the sound of November bells, the music of the festival, my childhood. All the mainland did was see me suffering on the streets for a decade."

"And for the last three years you've been happy with my horses, in your own apartment near the stables, free to come and go as you please as long as you get done what needs doing. You'll have enough to buy your own house here soon, Belle," he says, using my nickname. My anger at being told no softens, but I don't back down.

"George, if you don't let me go, I'm going to walk away myself." He recoils like I've slapped him.

"You would do that? Just to return to an island of bad memories?"

"I would." He looks at me in silence for a long moment. He sighs.

"Alright. Alright, you can come with me. I'll have to find someone to fill in." Relief and excitement flutters in my chest. "But I have one condition," he says. "I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you were capable. I want you to race for me."

"You want me to ride in the Scorpio races?"

"I do."

"Then I'll do it," I say simply. And that's that. I leave his office to carry on with my work, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

oO0Oo

The wind still buffets the tiny boat, and I still cling to the railings, unmindful of the sea spray settling on my skin and clothes as the foaming waves crash against the hull. I have a while to go before the boat journey is over, so I content myself with more memories. Good memories, turning points in my life. Like the day Mr Holly offered me the job in the first place.

oO0Oo

I am a seventeen-year-old girl, wandering by his new stables, wishing the land is mine. I've been on the mainland for ten years now, but money is getting short and I am getting hungry. The bakery I worked in has closed down without paying me my last wage. I can't afford another night in the hotel nearby, so since I have no permanent place to live, I'm faced with sleeping on the streets.

A little black Dun mare has poked her head through the fence nearest me and chuffs as I trudge along, catching my attention. She's a sweet old thing, with a soft mane and wide brown eyes. I find comfort in the smell of hay and grain, and I stay petting her for a while, until the whinnying and keening of a horse that isn't really a horse draws me towards a van a little way down the road.

A man in a white sweater and two other burly stable hands, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, are struggling to guide a _Cappall_ _uisce _into the back. It is lame, its back leg bent beneath it, tipped so only the point of the hoof touches the ground. Walking looks painful. All I can make out of the horse after that is that its coat is a deep red. I feel a pang as I look at that horse, drawn back to the island and home, until the back of the van is finally closed and it rattles off down the road.

The man in the white sweater turns towards the gates to his land, until the Dun mare whinnies to catch his attention. Even from my vantage point half way down the road, I can see a smile spreading across his face, and then he spots me. He doesn't pause in his stride as he comes towards us.

"I see you've met Beauty," he says. He has an American accent, and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he beams. "I'm George Holly, Californian horse dealer and notorious busy body." He sticks out a hand, unmindful of the dirt crusting my palms. "Forgive me if I seem rude, but you look like you've seen better days. Are you a street child?"

"I am now," I reply, but say nothing more. He studies me for a moment, with my steady stare and dark, soft hair.

"You remind me of someone…" he says, almost to himself, before his expression clears and he beams again. "Come with me, I'm sure I can find you somewhere to sleep miss…?"

"Isabella. Isabella Farrow."

"Miss Farrow," he smiles and offers his arm. "I'm setting up a breeding business here on the mainland," he says, needing no prompt to begin speaking. "I've just bought this land. Right now it's an ordinary stable with a house in back, kind of like the ranches back home." He looks wistful for a moment.

"And is that where home is?" I ask. "California?" His smile returns.

"Indeed it is. Or it was. It's here now, once I get myself sorted." He looks up at the darkening sky. "Sometimes I wonder why I stay here though, with this terrible weather."

"It was Thisby wasn't it? Thisby is what made you stay." When I say Thisby, I mean the sea, and the sand, and the _Cappaill_ _uisce_. The island is made of these things.

"I came for the Scorpio Races. I've never visited an island quite like Thisby. Personally I think that, come next October, the _Cappaill uisce _would leave the water and I'd be the first to die if I lived there. I couldn't cope on an island like that, no matter how much I might want to." His smile grows wider. "So the mainland is the next best thing for me."

"A lot of the gentry make the same decision each year," I say quietly. "While the mainland grows in size, the little island stays the same. Everyone is afraid of the water horses."

"Are you afraid of them, Isabella?" I look at him for a long moment, considering his question.

"The water horses killed my family. But no. I'm not afraid of them. I'm smart enough to be wary of them, they're murderous and wild. But I'm not scared of them."

"I think," Mr Holly says, slanting a sideways glance at me, "that I have just found my senior stable hand." My heart skips; I'll be eating tonight.

oO0Oo

The boat is still on the swelling seas, being battered around by wave after wave, and I am on the boat, braced against the harsh winds. My heart hammers with excitement; it's been a long time since last I set foot on a boat. I've missed the sea.

One of the deckhands calls for me to step away from the railings, but I don't. They're afraid of the sea, and the storm, and the circling bodies the surface hides. In their veins there is only blood.

In my veins there is the ocean.

The boat swells and the eerie song of the _Cappaill_ _uisce_ echoes over the waves. It sounds mournful, like the song of whales, and can carry for many miles under water. The ships crew gasp sharply and increase the speed of their work, running this way and that frantically. I strain to find the source of the high keening, and I find it.

Less than a mile out a head breaks the surface of the water, a sleek, long head with a thick, dark mane and sea foam clinging to its coat. Long ears flick towards us, and the _Cappall_ sings again, his teeth flashing white. I can't tell what colour he is from this distance, only that he is dark, and male. I can tell by the strong brow, and the length of his ears. I see his hooves churn the water and he dives, disappearing smoothly into the ocean. My eyes watch for the telltale cleft in the waves as his large body cuts through the water.

_Cappail uisce_ are cunning creatures. If you can hear the approach of a water horse, you are already dead. When I was younger I saw many people carried off into the sea during the races. I saw people eaten, animals slaughtered by the hungry beasts. The sea drives them mad, drives them onto land, and they cause havoc if they aren't caught. I remember the face of my six-year-old neighbour as she was torn apart by one of them, and my stomach clenches.

And then a call makes me turn. The sailors have spotted the white edged cliffs of Thisby, bleached by years of sea spray and briny winds. My heart trips as my home slices out of the water before me, small and insignificant to big city dwellers, magnificent and proud to me. The captain calls out to prepare for docking, and I can't help my smile.

Thisby is there.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Saltwater Veins: Chapter Two…**_

oO0Oo

The boat bumps against the docks with a rough, hollow scraping sound, and I am helped from the deck by strong, rough hands. The worn face of a young man with a squared off jaw and tired eyes greets me as he lifts me onto solid ground. My feet are planted on Thisby for the first time in thirteen years.

"Finn Connolly at your service," he says. He looks young, though his eyes are old, intelligent. There's a wrench sticking out of his pocket.

"Isabella," I reply. "Isabella Farrow."

"Been to the island before?"

"I was born here," is my answer. He smiles.

"Must be strange for you then, coming back here." Several others are helped off the boat behind us, the women flapping a little at the spray from the Scorpio Sea firing up between the boat and the dock. It brings an amused glint to Flinn's face, softening his sea-hardened skin. His smile is infectious.

"A little, but it's alright. It's like coming home."

"You remind me of somebody," Finn says suddenly, squinting to study me. When I say nothing, too busy remembering the same expression on Mr Holly's face three years ago, he shrugs it off and gestures for me to follow. "Come on, we'll get you settled in the hotel nearby. You're with Mr Holly aren't you?"

"He's joining me in a day or two, yes."

"You'll like where you're staying, Mr Holly always stays in the best rooms at the Malvern Hotel." Finn rubs his chin thoughtfully with a grubby hand. "He's friendly with Mr Malvern. If you plan on staying, he might get Malvern to give you a job up at the stables. You could help out the stable boys with the horses there."

"I've heard of Mr Malvern," I say. "Mr Holly had some dealings with him and the _Cappail uisce,_ back before Malvern's son died. We still have one or two of the _Cappail _that he sold us."

"So you've seen the water horses before then?"

"I know them well, yes," I reply. He doesn't need to know just how well, though.

"Have you ever ridden one?" I shake my head, remembering the last time I saw father leave the house with my brother, both of them perched on the back of our sea stallion, the wind tearing at them as they galloped away.

"My sister hasn't either," he says. I frown, not sure why that's relevant. "Puck Connolly," he says, and my confusion clears. Puck, the first female to ride in the Scorpio Races. The first woman to win them. And the only one crazy enough to do so on an average Dunn mare named Dove. I envy her, and all of her courage.

"I've heard of her, too. Is Dove still racing?"

"Nah, my sister raced to save our house, not for the sport. She ran one race on our pony. I hope she never races again, the sport is dangerous." He frowns, a rivet forming between his eyes, and wipes his hands on his ragged blue overalls.

"Your sisters' achievement spread over the mainland like wildfire," I tell him, raising my voice as the biting wind struggles to snatch my words away and toss them to the sea. Somewhere in the distance, a _Cappail uisce_ sings.

"She did a brave thing, and she's gained so much from it," he smiles. "I'm proud of her for it, and I always will be. She raced for me, and for our home, not for sport or glory. She saved both of us from poverty."

He starts towards a grassy hill leading up the cliff, where a silver car is perched. It's nothing special, a simple silver Vauxhall, but the paint is perfect, polished to a gleam, the tires are deepest black, and the windows are so clean that at first it seems like there is no glass in the frame. And then we draw closer and my reflection stares at me solemnly.

I look so much like my brother; the same dark hair, the pensive, hooded eyes, straight nose and soft, pale lips. I even have his cheekbones. Seeing him in me makes me miss him. It makes me miss my home. It's these moments that make me doubt my love for Thisby and the water horses.

oO0Oo

"What's your first order of business then?" Finn says, his fingers tight round the steering wheel as we drive away from the hotel, where my bags have been left for me for later. He only just looks old enough to be behind the wheel, and yet he seems like he's been driving for years. He looks happy where he is.

"I have a meeting with Mr Malvern."

"Okay. I've been told I'm your sherpa until Mr Holly gets here, so I'll be driving you around places."

"That's kind of you, but I think I'll be able to get a horse from Mr Malvern when I get there," I smile. Finn shakes his head.

"It's getting towards October, miss, and the water horses are coming back. George Holly is paying me to keep you safe while he isn't here."

"I can handle the _Cappail uisce."_

"Mutt Malvern thought that too, until his piebald mare took him into the ocean."

"Skata," I say, and the word tastes like fear. I've heard all about the death of Master Malvern through Mr Holly.

"That's her alright. Now I've been paid to keep you safe and that's what I'll do. It won't hurt to give you a tour of home while you're here, either." His smile crinkles his eyes at the corners. He pushes harder on the accelerator and we begin the journey to the stables.

As we're driving, a whinnie sounds beside us. I turn to find a slim, strong-looking Dunn mare eating up the ground beside us, galloping parallel to the road. Her coat is shiny and soft, her mane sleek and short. She is ridden by a girl with long, wild red hair and freckles.

The girl and her pony follow us to the stables, slowing to a trot as Finn pulls up and steps out of the car. I follow his lead, shutting the door gently behind me, and the red head drops down off her horse. I realise that this girl is Puck Connolly, and the pony is Dove, winner of the Scorpio Races three years ago. My heart squeezes as my eyes fall on Dove's front left flank. There is a scar, a bite mark from the _Coppail uisce._ How could such a small horse win against so many massive beasts?

"Puck!" Finn says, grinning."

"Who's this?" Puck asks, nodding politely at me. She pats Dove, who pushes her nose into the nest of red hair.

"Isabella," I say. "Most people call me Belle."

"Hi, Belle," she smiles. "I'm Kate, but people on the island call me Puck."

"Puck Connolly. The first girl to race, and win, on a pony. I'm impressed," I say. She laughs and takes Doves' reins in her hand, towing her through the grand front gate. The land is surrounded by fencing that looks expensive, difficult to kick down.

"I take it you're here to see Malvern?" she asks.

"I am."

"Right this way."

"Are you here to see Mr Malvern too?" I ask.

"Me? No. I'm here to see one of his stable boys, he'll be the one to take you to your meeting." She sets off walking and we follow in silence, Finn locking the car and hurrying to catch up. Dove noses at plants as she passes, and shakes her mane at a shire horse trotting around a nearby field. In the distance I can make out a contraption that looks like a giant, round cage. I squint for a while, and then realise it's just a meatier version of the runs back on the mainland. No doubt it was fortified to withstand the sheer strength of the water horses.

There's a _Cappal_ in the run, walking round and round with its head down, sniffing at the floor. There's something about the way it stands, leaning slightly, that sparks up a memory. The injured horse being pushed into the back of the van, the way its leg tips to take the weight off. This is that same horse. His coat is a deep red. I frown, a sick feeling settling in my stomach, the kind of sick feeling I only get when I'm nervous.

I break away from the small group, heading towards the run, almost jogging in my eagerness to reach it. I can see the horse now. His muscles flex as he walks, rolling beneath vibrant red. He is a stallion, larger than most, with round, sparkling black eyes. His long ears and lean face are so familiar, the long tail flicking back and forth as he walks.

I reach the edge of the run and hook my fingers through the metal caging, and the _Cappal_ stops. He looks at me for a long while, right into my eyes. He turns his face to see me properly, and takes a few steps forwards.

"Watch out! Don't let him get your fingers, he'll have them off in a second," Puck calls. But I don't care. This horse, this animal is as beautiful as they come, and a scent clings to its coat that I recognise, though it feels like years since last I smelled it. The horse is snuffling at my hand, as though he too smells something familiar on my skin. I feel my heart squeeze and release rapidly, hammering against my rib cage. There is something about this _Cappal_ that holds me there, unafraid of the danger I am in, with my fingers laced through the cage, vulnerable and easy to snap off.

Puck draws near, frowning, and goes to put a hand on my shoulder, probably to pull me back, but she stops when she sees the _Cappal,_ and the way he noses at my skin like he knows me from somewhere. She pulls her hand away slowly watching the horse.

"His name is Corr," she says.

"I saw this horseonce before. It was years ago, back on the mainland. His leg was broken. Mr Holly was loading him into the back of a van."

"He was shipping him over to California to fix his leg. Over there they have procedures to fix injuries that here we'd have to shoot horses for." She smiles up at Corr, who's spotted Dove. He shakes his mane, snorting and tossing his head, showing off for the Dunn mare. "Mr Holly offered us a miracle, and we took it. Corr won't race again, but Christ, he can still run."

"You said 'we'. Corr isn't your horse?" I ask, curious. She raises her eyebrow, smiling.

"My horse? God, no. I have Dove, Corr belongs to my boyfriend." She looks to her left, spotting movement by the ornate stables. "Speak of the devil. Here he comes now."

I turn, tearing my eyes away from Corr, and see Finn leaning against the side of the little silver vauxhall, hands buried in the pockets of his grubby blue overalls. His hair is mussed by the wind, rushing in from the direction of the sea. He nods to me, and then waves awkardly to a figure approaching us. The figure gives a wave back and my stomach twists a little.

The boy, more a man really, is tall and stocky in a deceptively slim-looking way. His shirt is light, his jeans heavy. The wind pushes his dark hair up off his forehead, and I spot two dark, pensieve eyes, a straight nose, angular cheekbones. His features are almost too sharp to be handsome, almost, but not quite. There's something about him that whispers of wildness, the cry of a wild _Cappal,_ the salt of the ocean.

_One foot on the sand, one foot in the sea._

It takes me a minute to catch my breath. He stops dead and stares at me, sucking in a sharp gasp. I feel my limbs begin to weaken, trembling as my head spins, and I'm moving before my brain catches up to me, throwing my arms around his neck. Running into him is like slamming into a wall, but I don't care. Strong arms wrap around me tight enough to lift me off the ground.

"Belle!" he gasps into my hair.

"Sean! I thought you were dead!"

"I thought you were dead, Belle. I went back to the house and you were gone." He looks down at me and pushes my hair away from my face so he can see me. He's older, stronger, but he's still the same Sean.

"I waited for three days. When I realised nobody was coming I hopped on a boat to the mainland. George Holly gave me a job a few years ago."

"But you left when you were just a child, what were you doing for the years before he gave you a job?"

"Living rough. But it was better than staying on an island where I thought my whole family had died," I say softly. He folds me into another painful, wonderfully tight hug, and I breathe in his scent. It is the same scent that clings to Corr, and no doubt to my skin, which would explain why the horse recognised something about me.

"I'm sorry," Puck says, looking irritated. I realise what this must look like to her, a strange girl clinging tightly to her boyfriend, gazing at him like gazing at the stars for the first time. "But just who are you?"

"Kate, this is Isabella. My little sister."


End file.
